


Away (And Back)

by VanillaIcing



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Belly Kink, Biting, Blowjobs, M/M, Praise Kink, Semi-public masturbation, Sex Dreams, Stuffing, Weight Gain, Which I did not intend for but it happened, thats a tag I never thought I would use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-30
Updated: 2018-07-30
Packaged: 2019-06-15 19:37:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15420102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VanillaIcing/pseuds/VanillaIcing
Summary: Pete goes away for a while, and comes back...different.





	Away (And Back)

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! I hate myself!
> 
> Anyways, remember me? I’m back! And fucking worse than before!
> 
> Yeah, so this isn’t my M.O., it’s not a short little one scene stuffing fic with like, a fair or something. I kind of went off, huh. Nice. 
> 
> Also, I know stuffedfob.tumblr.com is sadly dead. My co-owner and I decided it wasn’t worth keeping, BUT now if you still want that sweet Big FOB Content, you should check me out on @sugarlipstump ;) (and visit my former co-owner on @kinkfob!)
> 
> Also, you know, read the tags. Not into it, don’t go further. If you don’t like this shit that’s cool, don’t bother with it. We’re all good. 
> 
> And apologies, this is semi unedited. I will fix any errors in the final scene tomorrow. :)
> 
> xoxo

Patrick works his hand into his sweater as he rocks back and forth on the soles of his feet. He can’t help but feel anxious, even though he knows everything is going to be alright. He and Pete have been through a lot together, but still, it’s been _three months_ since they’ve seen each other, and what if they don’t click like they used to? What if Pete hates him now? What if Pete is planning on breaking up with him for a hot girl he met in some neat bar in the warm, tropical city he had business in? All logical scenarios, really. 

Okay, three months isn’t really that long, in the big scheme of things. Pete and Patrick have been together—quick math, here—eight times longer than that, so of course they’ll be alright. Patrick isn’t even worried, he swears. They won’t change. _Pete_ won’t change. Pete never changes. 

“Hey, ‘Trick!”

Okay, Patrick might have to take that last one back. 

His head snaps right up at the voice and he locks eyes with his boyfriend, in a pair of black jeans and a t-shirt that Patrick doesn’t remember him having when he’d left, quickly closing the space between them with a suitcase trundling behind him. He’s beaming, and he pulls Patrick into a bone-crushing hug the second he’s within range. 

“Babe!” he says, squeezing to the point where Patrick actually can’t breathe for a second. “I missed you so much!”

Patrick forcefully peels himself out of Pete’s grip, smiling even though something he doesn’t like is working away at him from the inside out. “I, uh, I missed you too.”

Okay, something about Pete is definitely...different. He looks...okay, the only word Patrick’s brain is supplying right now is different. (Actually, it’s supplying a whole host of other words, which Patrick is selectively choosing to ignore.) It’s not a bad different, far from it, Patrick kind of loves...whatever it is. It’s the new clothes, maybe. Or the tan. Pete’s got a nice tan, now. See, that’s it. 

“You alright?” Pete asks, his smile still held up even though it’s now tainted with concern. Damn, and Patrick was the one worrying _Pete_ would be causing weirdness between them.

“Of course,” Patrick tells him, and it’s mostly true, because why would a tan unsettle him so much? It’s the tan. Naturally. (It’s the tan, of course, that’s getting him a little bit hard. Only a little bit, he _swears_.)

“Sweet.” Pete is straight back to grinning, and he’s said some mildly stupid shit in response to something serious, so really he’s just the same Pete that Patrick saw off at the airport months ago. Nothing’s different, and if something is, it’s definitely not something Patrick pays attention to. Not at all. 

“So, as an apology for having to be gone, I was thinking we do your favorite burger place after this? My treat?” Pete offers, which doesn’t help Patrick one bit because that sparks something in the part of him he’s forcefully ignoring right now, but he just smiles wider and replies, “Yeah, sure, could I hit the bathroom first?”, because that little bit thing was kind of a lie. 

“No problem,” Pete says, oblivious to Patrick’s inner conflict, so Patrick nods and nearly bolts to the nearest restroom. 

Thank god for single room airport bathrooms, Patrick thinks. He’d be doomed if this one had stalls. The second he’s locked the door behind him, his hand is in his pants and he’s biting back a moan. 

Patrick tries to unbutton and push down his pants while he works at himself, because he can’t walk out of here a mess, he’s got more dignity than that, if nothing else, but he only barely manages it before he’s coming sooner than he’s sure he usually does, mind flashing with little things he doesn’t want to say he noticed. 

_The extra bit of softness around what used to be a sharp jaw—_

_The way that shirt didn’t quite cover everything—_

_The jeans that dug into the waist and held tight against the thighs, even though they looked to be sized a little too big on the legs—_

_The extra bit of everything that Patrick can’t pretend he didn’t notice—_

_Can’t pretend he doesn’t—_

Patrick collapses wide-eyed and red-faced on the tile floor, buries his face in his hands, and tries to calm himself down. 

That was a fluke. All of that was a fluke. It was the tan. The _tan_. 

Patrick takes in a harsh breath, then goes for the sink and does the best he can at cleanup. The best he can do for someone who’s just jerked it in an airport bathroom to the fact his boyfriend gained weight. 

Tanned. To the fact his boyfriend tanned. 

———

“Damn,” Pete says, smirking as he leans against the wall outside the bathroom, watching Patrick emerge, “I know I’m hot, but you can’t even keep it in your pants for two hours?”

“Tan,” Patrick chokes out, taken aback and only managing to throw out the useless justification he’s been making for himself, which doesn’t even make sense in this situation. 

“Sorry, what?” Pete raises an eyebrow. 

Patrick shakes his head and grabs Pete’s hand. “Said we should go now,” he lies, absolutely not thinking about where they’re going after this. 

“Cool,” Pete says, and Patrick leads him along wordlessly, definitely not examining the differences in Pete’s hand that he’s busy gripping for dear life.

———

“So, how was the...weather?” Patrick tries weakly, because it’s all he can think of that isn’t everything different about Pete. (He doesn’t even need to say what this time. The tan is implied.)

“Warm,” Pete answers, laughing as he makes circles in his Sprite with the straw. The ice clinks gently against the glass. Patrick tries not to scream. 

“Yeah. Sun,” Patrick agrees, or at least he thinks he’s agreeing, kind of. He can’t keep track of this. His face is perpetually red. And Pete is—

“It rained a lot, too, actually,” Pete adds, thankfully interrupting Patrick’s thought before it could go somewhere he really would like it not to. “For a whole week, we were—“

“Excuse me? Are you ready to order?” 

The waitress appears over their table, smiling courteously at them, which Patrick thinks is a sign he needs to thank god for. Or some other higher power. Or luck. Whatever it is that gave him a distraction from Pete, he’s thankful for it. At least, until it doesn’t fucking work. 

“Sure,” Pete responds immediately, smiling back up at the waitress and leaning forward on one elbow. Patrick would be worried he was flirting, if it weren’t for the fact Pete is just always like this. “I’ll have the barbecue burger, and also the daily special, and can I get a large side of fries?”

Patrick is not going to die. That’s the first thing he has to focus on. He manages it. And he also _definitely_ isn’t going to get hard again just from hearing Pete order dinner. This, he does worse at. 

Because what the fuck, okay, Pete has never ordered that much before. They went here a week before he flew out, too, and Pete ordered just the barbecue burger. Even then, there were leftovers. There’s no way Pete’s actually planning on—

“Patrick, baby, what do you want?”

Patrick’s head jerks over to Pete, then over to the patient waiter. He laughs nervously. “Uh,” he says, even though he hadn’t even opened the menu, “what’s the special?”

“It’s a burger with bacon, lettuce, garlic aioli, and a rosemary onion ring,” the waitress happily tells him. Patrick tries to stop himself from eyeing Pete after every new topping she lists, but it isn’t working. “It comes with an extra side of onion rings.”

Patrick is going to combust. 

“I’ll have that,” he says, because he doesn’t have the brain power to think about whatever else he might like. Today is out to kill him. That stupid tan. 

“Good choice,” the waitress says, like she’s supposed to say. She takes Pete’s menu, and has to pry Patrick’s away, because he’s gripping it white-knuckled in shock. 

“Babe,” Pete says once she’s disappeared, “are you sure you’re okay? You’re acting all weird, I know it’s been a while, but is something up?”

Patrick forces a smile that he hopes doesn’t come off too obviously pained. “No, no, I’m fine, just kind of tired. And it’s weird seeing you...after so long.” There’s something else he almost finished the sentence with instead, but thank god, Patrick isn’t _that_ dumb. Nearly, but not quite. “What were you saying about the rain?” he asks, hoping to distract from his awkward moment. It works. 

“Oh, damn,” Pete responds, breaking right back into a grin as if nothing had happened at all. “So, there was a flood, right? And me and these three guys were all—“

Patrick politely listens to Pete go on and on about the flood, and then something else about the weather, and then a totally unrelated story, and for once in his life he feels very grateful for Pete’s ability to talk about himself for all of eternity. It gives Patrick the much needed chance to take a deep breath and rationalize, and to forget about everything that’s been bothering him. Because obviously, it’s nothing. Pete came back from a trip looking a little different, and that’s nothing new. Patrick’s just adjusting. That’s what it is, that makes much more sense. He’s not turned on by it, he’s adjusting. 

Well, he can say he’s not turned on by it up to the point where the food comes. 

Pete trails off in the middle of a story about birdwatching, and instead turns to grin up at the waitress. Okay, he’s not grinning at the waitress, more like the point directly in front of her, which turns out to be the fucking _two burgers and fries_ Pete had ordered. The waitress sets all the food down—fucking hell, there’s barely room on the table for it all—and turns away after saying she hopes they’ll enjoy their meal. Patrick certainly will not. 

Pete’s grin redirects itself to Patrick, and as he’s already grabbing the first of the burgers, he asks, “So, enough about me. How’s it been over here? How have you been doing?”

Patrick’s luck has run out. Not only has Pete forced him to say something and taken away his chance to think things through for once, it seems the only reason he’d stop talking was to _eat_ , which he begins to do... _very enthusiastically_. 

Pete’s halfway through the first burger and snacking on the fries already by the time Patrick gets himself to say, “Oh, nothing much. I watched our neighbors’ dog for a couple days. Joe fractured his wrist a month or so ago. Think that’s it, though.” He reluctantly bites into his own burger, which is hard to concentrate on when Pete’s already finished one of his, what the hell, and there’s a tiny smear of sauce running down his lips, and—

No. Patrick isn’t doing this, because this doesn’t have anything to do with adjusting, so he can’t explain it away, therefore it’s not a problem in the first place. Patrick’s logic is flawless, he thinks. He’s so good at this. 

“Damn, how did I not hear?” Pete’s hand deftly flicks up to wipe off the sauce, and Patrick forces himself not to watch it, which doesn’t work out because then what he ends up watching instead is the extra bit of chub on Pete’s face. Damn it. 

“Uh. Uhhhh. _Uh_.” Patrick malfunctions for a second before he catches himself, forcing himself to meet Pete’s eyes instead of his cheeks. “Don’t know,” he finally manages, smiling weakly, which is difficult when Pete’s already pushing the second burger into his mouth. (Holy _shit_.) “It never came up.”

“Tell me next time,” Pete says, _with burger still in his mouth_ , as if Patrick wasn’t broken already. Fucking hell, this shouldn’t be hot! Patrick catches himself. No, this _isn’t_ hot. Naturally. He can’t let himself slip up like that. Not that there’s anything to slip up on. 

“Yeah, yeah, I will,” Patrick agrees. He pushes his plate aside. Suddenly he’s not hungry. 

Pete, however, doesn’t miss a beat before asking, “You gonna finish that?”

Patrick’s eyes flick over to his near-untouched burger and onion rings, then back to the two empty plates and half an order of fries in front of Pete, then back to his burger. Jesus _Christ_. His face goes bright red even though he finds himself saying, “No, I’m good.”

“Cool.” Pete’s got Patrick’s plate instantly, and he pulls it over to his own side of the table. Patrick can’t even watch. He is so, so, _so_ fucked. Fuck. 

Patrick forces himself to look elsewhere, and chooses the wood of the table. He thinks he might just explode if he has to watch Pete eat a third burger. Or come. Or both. He isn’t quite sure what he’s feeling right now. It’s been a _day_. 

Patrick doesn’t even notice when Pete finishes, the waitress comes with the check, and leaves again. He’s only alerted to the passage of time when Pete’s hand finds his and Pete’s voice interrupts, “Hey, you about ready to go?”

Patrick finally looks up again. Pete is smiling carefully, like he can tell something is up. Patrick is sure he can, he just needs to make sure Pete can’t tell what it is. 

“Yeah,” he says, because it’s what he’s supposed to say, “I’m ready.”

Patrick almost reflexively reaches to grab the leftovers, but there _aren’t any_. Pete finished _everything_. Patrick tries to pretend it’s not, maybe, a little bit hot. (The keyword here is _tries_.) But, that’s not the point. It’s not important. None of this is important, and everything is fine. 

Everything is fine right until Pete nods and gets out from the booth they’re seated at. Then everything is absolutely not fine. 

Patrick had thought the t-shirt hadn’t fit well before. Now, well. Now it doesn’t even seem to make an effort to cover the curve of Pete’s stomach. And Pete isn’t even making an effort to make it, what the _hell_. The thing is riding almost halfway up his belly, bunched up just short of too embarrassing to leave alone. (But isn’t it too embarrassing already?) One of Pete’s arms has curled around it like it belongs there. At first Patrick is thankful for something covering up that visible bit of taut, chubby skin, but then he isn’t anymore, because it’s hard not to notice that Pete’s arm is a bit bigger then Patrick remembers it, too. 

But, no. Again—none of that matters.

Patrick does what he’s sort of learning to be good at and ignores the hell out of it. It’s not like he cares. He shouldn’t care. He doesn’t care. He just accepts Pete’s hand once again and lets his boyfriend lead him back out of the restaurant that he swears he will never be able to go into again, ever. 

———

_Patrick gasps through a hot, insistent kiss, curling his hands deeper into fistfuls of hair. He only stops to breathe, pushing himself up on his elbows so he can stare down into Pete’s eyes. One of his hands leaves Pete’s hair to instead cup his face, purposefully pushing into the soft bits on the side of it._

_“Patrick,” Pete nearly whines, shifting beneath Patrick in a way that makes his whole body sort of jiggle against Patrick. Patrick’s breath catches in his throat. “ _Patrick_ ,” Pete repeats, “please—“_

_“Shut up,” Patrick hisses, the hand that doesn’t have Pete’s face in it dropping down to wrap around his midsection instead. Patrick’s arm presses into Pete’s side, so much further than it could’ve before. Patrick can’t help but smirk because of it. Pete seems to notice, and just moans softly below him._

_Patrick leans back down, kissing Pete again, gently now, even though and mostly because Pete clearly wants more than that. His hand travels down again, leaving Pete’s waist and finding his ass instead. Now _there’s_ something Patrick wishes he’d thought about earlier. He’d noticed how much bigger it was, sure, but pressing a hand onto it as he lets himself kiss a little harder is something different entirely. God. _

_Patrick breaks away again, and this time sits back, resting himself right on the lower ends of Pete’s huge, beautiful thighs, which are serving as a nice, soft seat right now. He lets himself give Pete a once over, staring down everything that’s changed, finally categorizing each and every thing._

_Pete’s bigger around the stomach, sure, but that’s not where most of the weight’s gone. His face has softened considerably, with the bonus of those perfect chubby cheeks that Patrick has decided are his favorite thing to kiss, and there’s a bit of extra weight on his arms and hands, though it’s minimal compared to the rest. Then, though, _then_ there’s what Patrick really loves, the place most of those extra pounds had ended up—just below the waist. _

_Patrick moves one hand to trace down Pete’s side and cup his ass again, smiling as Pete whimpers needily. He digs his fingers in, just a little, and Pete squirms and starts, “Please, _please_ —“_

_“Stop,” Patrick commands, digging his fingers in a little more, loving that there’s still so much fucking give there. “Let me enjoy you for a little bit.”_

_Pete just nods, looking like the words have set him right again. He looks some odd sort of flattered, which nearly makes sense, and Patrick gets it. Pete loves being on display like this, loves knowing Patrick loves him like this._

_Patrick’s free hand brushes down Pete’s other side, finding the opposite thigh. His smile grows, turns darker. He grabs on here, too, and he’s weirdly excited when he finds himself holding on to handfuls of squishy flesh, and seeing that there’s even more there for him to touch, if only he had another hand. Fuck if seeing Pete lying on the bed, face bright red, mouth wide open, thick thighs spreading out, isn’t the greatest thing he’s ever seen._

_“You look so good like this,” Patrick tells him, leaning back down so he’s just above Pete, a breath away, his hand on Pete’s ass now realigning itself on Pete’s lower back, gripping the chub there instead. Patrick’s short breaths land right on Pete’s face. Pete stares right back up at him. His face contorts into a satisfied smirk._

_“Like what?” he asks, one of his hands moving to sit right over the one Patrick has positioned on his thigh. He knows the answer, and Patrick knows he knows the answer, but neither of them budge._

_“You know,” Patrick breathes out, both his hands tightening their hold. Pete shifts, but doesn’t budge mentally._

_“I do,” he agrees, “but I want you to say it. I want to know what you love about this. I want to know you love what I did for you.”_

_And that’s what catches Patrick off guard, what breaks him down, it’s the idea that Pete did this for _him_ , that Pete did the work of putting on this much weight just so Patrick could enjoy it. Patrick’s hands squeeze harder. His resolve slips. He lets himself acknowledge everything, just this once. _

_He leans down to Pete’s ear, still holding onto Pete’s skin, white-knuckled, and whispers, making sure his hot breath tickles Pete’s inner ear, gets the shudder that he wants out of his boyfriend, “You look so good fat.”_

_Pete shudders just like Patrick wanted him to, making his whole body shake in that way Patrick has quickly come to love, and his smile only widens as he tugs Patrick a little closer in response._

_Pete works his hand into Patrick’s hair and uses it to keep him there as he leans his head up just enough for his lips to brush Patrick’s ear as he says, “I know.”_

———

Patrick wakes up sweating and rock hard, thanking everything he can possibly think to thank that he’s alone in the bed right now. He bolts out from under the covers without a second thought, sprints straight into the adjoining bathroom, and for the second time in as many days he’s jerking off on the floor next to a toilet.

When he’s done, Patrick groans and leans back against the bathroom wall, eyes squeezed hard shut. Unfortunately for him, orgasm had brought with it a fresh flood of the dream images, and no matter how hard he tries, he can’t get this one to wash away like most of his dreams do. It seems he’s stuck with it. So _that’s_ not great. 

The worst part is, Patrick can’t ignore this anymore, not after _that_. He can’t claim he’s so worked up over a tan after what he did in that dream—after what he _said_ in that dream. No, this is something else, and it’s something else he can’t ignore anymore. 

Patrick thinks it’s kind of hot that Pete’s put on weight. 

Okay, that’s not the truth either. 

Patrick thinks it’s _very_ hot that Pete’s put on weight. 

This is all very fucked up, and very unfair. Patrick thinks he might need to lie down for a little, or forever, however long it takes until he starts thinking normally again and his brain starts to understand that this isn’t right. Has he hit his head recently? Could that be it? Maybe he’s possessed. It makes no sense, but it’s a better answer, at least to him, than the idea that this is just something that’s _his_. 

Patrick peels himself off the floor and makes quick work of cleaning up, trying to use the menial task, albeit a weird one, to keep his mind elsewhere. It doesn’t really work. The dream keeps resurfacing, bringing with it a soft face, a pair of chubby thighs, _you look so good_ —

Patrick whacks himself upside the head with his left hand, and that brings the thought to a blessed end. He can’t deal with this right now. He’s going to go have some coffee, do some work, and forget any of this ever happened. He’s _fine_. 

Patrick leaves the bathroom, changes into a fresh t-shirt and jeans, and walks out of the bedroom, hoping for his own sake Pete is already out of the house. (Didn’t he say he had a meeting today?)

Pete is _not_ already out of the house. Worse, he does have a meeting. Worst of all, he’s dressed for it. 

Up to this point, Patrick has only seen Pete in new clothes, ones that he’d obviously bought on his trip, likely a size or two or a few up. (Not that Patrick has been thinking about that, or anything.) But now? Now Pete is dressed for a formal meeting, something he definitely didn’t need to shop for while he was away, so the suit he’s wearing is...undersized, to say the least. 

Pete hasn’t noticed that Patrick has entered the kitchen yet—he’s hunched diligently over the coffee machine, likely trying to make a pot before Patrick gets up. Patrick would find it sweet if he wasn’t busy being so fucking _broken_.

If Patrick had to guess, he’d say this suit is two, possibly three, sizes too small, considering it was old even before the extra weight. What’s for sure is it certainly doesn’t fit Pete now—the buttons are all straining against his chubby stomach, the pants press tight against his thighs, even the sleeves are squeezing against his arms as he presses a button on the machine. The motion, which includes him leaning down a little further, also causes his belly to push even harder against the buttons, and Patrick’s pretty sure they might snap off which, shit, may be a little hotter than it should be. (But it isn’t, because Patrick is over this, remember?) 

Pete’s head snaps over to Patrick, and his eyes widen. Patrick realizes suddenly that he’s gasped aloud, and he goes red as Pete greets him, “Oh, hey, ‘Trick, I didn’t see you there.”

“Yeah, uh,” Patrick begins, grappling hopelessly for something useful to say, something that isn’t about the way the waistline of the pants pushes so deep into Pete’s hips, “yeah, good morning.”

“Just making your coffee,” Pete says, turning back to watch as the last of the hot liquid collects in the pot. His stomach jiggles, just barely, constrained under the tightness of his suit jacket. It takes everything Patrick has not to make some sort of undignified noise in response. He manages, somehow. 

“I can see that,” he says, stepping further into the room. Pete flashes him a smile as he opens the cupboard and removes two mugs. 

“Sorry I have to go so soon, babe,” Pete says forlornly, or something like that, pouring two cups before grabbing the cream from the fridge and the sugar from another cabinet. 

Patrick watches intently as Pete adds the appropriate amounts to each coffee, definitely not noticing how much the suit genuinely restricts Pete’s mobility. It’s just...interesting, is the explanation he’s gonna go with. Interesting. 

“Hey. Hey, Earth to Patrick.”

Patrick blinks out of his trance to find a warm mug being forced into his hands. He looks up to find Pete staring directly into his eyes, a tiny bit of worry reflected in warm brown. 

“You okay, honey?” he asks, taking a sip of his own coffee. _Wow_ , Patrick thinks, stubbornly, _he looks even better up close_. 

“What?” Patrick says, then, shaking his head, “Yeah, yeah, of course. Just kind of tired. And it’s weird seeing you again.”

“Mhm.” Pete nods understandingly. (He understands nothing.) “I get that. You’ve just been off. But it’s okay, you get today to get back in the swing of things, yeah?” Before Patrick can bullshit a response, he checks his watch, and his gaze turns back up, a little surprised this time. “Shit, I should probably go, time goes so damn fast. I’ll see you in a few hours?”

Patrick’s mouth is dry. He nods as emphatically as he can manage. “Yeah, a few hours.”

“Okay.” Pete still looks worried, and Patrick sort of wants to set his mind at rest, but what’s he going to say, _sorry babe, I just think it’s really hot that you’re kind of chubby now and I’ve jerked it in two bathrooms because of it_?

Then Patrick can’t even think about _that_ anymore, because Pete’s pulled him in for a kiss—their first since Pete left, actually—and now all he can think about is how even through just a kiss, he can feel the new softness of Pete’s face. 

Damn it. 

“Love you,” Pete says sweetly, pulling away and grinning, likely assuming Patrick’s shock is for some normal person reason, not _boyfriend bigger, hot_. 

“Love you too.” Patrick is even desperate enough to manage a real smile this time, and that only makes Pete smile bigger. (And that, in turn, only accentuates the chub on his face, but hey, Patrick totally doesn’t care about stuff like that at all.)

And when Pete turns and goes for the door, Patrick _definitely_ isn’t paying attention to the way his ass moves in those way-too-tight pants. 

Shit. 

———

Okay, so Patrick is handling this. In his own way. 

He’s decided to resign himself to the fact that he can’t ignore it. Okay, so yeah, maybe he’ll never be able to stop paying attention to Pete’s body, but it’s alright, because that’s basically how it was before. They’re boyfriends, for fuck’s sake, that’s normal. At least, Patrick tells himself it is. 

And after a third, post-suit jerk-off session, Patrick is pretty sure he’s got it all under control. He spends the rest of his time alone in bed, playing some stupid game on his phone and enjoying the fact that he’s totally solved all his problems just by not giving a shit. He wishes everything worked like that. 

It’s going perfect right up til Pete walks into the bedroom with no warning—god, had Patrick really missed the sounds of the door opening?—and immediately declares, “Fuck, I really need to get out of this suit.”

Patrick’s hand reflexively tosses his phone to the nightstand, and his eyes shoot up. Yeah, the suit hasn’t gotten any better since it freaked Patrick out this morning. It might have gotten worse, actually, but who can say?

Pete’s face is red and he’s already shrugging off his jacket, and maybe it’s the revelation that hey, shirt buttons strain, too, and maybe it’s just that Pete undressing automatically triggers something in Patrick, but suddenly Patrick is, against his will, sitting up in bed and responding, “Yeah, you really do”, in a tone nothing short of _dark_. 

Pete pauses, fingers barely touching the top button, and looks up. Something like a smirk is dancing on his face, a look that reads _oh, good, we’re back to normal_. They really aren’t, but Patrick isn’t about to be the one to break that news. 

“I guess,” Pete begins, raising an eyebrow, taking a step closer, fingers falling off the shirt, “some help would be nice.”

Patrick is going to die. Right here, right now, even though he knows Pete doesn’t know anything, really. 

“C’mere,” he says nonetheless, mirroring Pete’s expression. Pete is on the bed in a heartbeat, and then he’s on _Patrick_ , and that’s, well, a lot, because—fuck. 

Patrick looking at Pete and seeing the visual weight differences is one thing. Having Pete on top of him and _feeling_ that weight is another. He’s so fucking heavy, now, fat thighs pressing down on either side of Patrick’s waist, curvy stomach pushing down on Patrick, all of his body giving in places it never did before. How Patrick is still alive is a mystery. 

Patrick is going for Pete’s buttons before he can even think, starting at the top and going down. Each one undone lets a little more of Pete’s body fall free, a little more pudge for Patrick to stare hungrily at. Even worse, when he reaches the bottom three buttons, the strain is so bad that they simply undo themselves at a simple light touch. Patrick brushes his finger against them and they open. The last one falls off entirely. Pete doesn’t say anything about it. 

Pete lunges for Patrick’s lips the second Patrick yanks his shirt off for good—oh god oh god the tight sleeves are a little difficult to get off of his chubby arms, oh god—and they both press closed together. Patrick is so lost in pushing himself as far into Pete as he can, now, that he only faintly notices when they flip over, putting him on top. He doesn’t even care. Feeling Pete’s heaviness on him is great, but so is being on top of it. 

Patrick kisses hungrily, and sometime in the process Patrick’s shirt disappears, and so do two pairs of pants and boxers. (The button on Pete’s pants had, at some point in the day, been replaced by a safety pin. Patrick doesn’t let himself dwell on those connotations.)

It’s not long before they’re both naked and making out desperately, the way you’d expect from two lovers torn apart for three months. Patrick keeps his eyes closed, like an idiot, so he doesn’t have to see what Pete looks like, so last night’s dream stays as far away from reality as possible. 

But it’s inevitable, really, that Pete breaks away, forcing Patrick to prop himself up on elbows above him, trying not to think about how Pete’s stomach still brushes against his own, even when he’s holding himself up a good few inches. And it’s also inevitable that Pete, breathy and smirking, murmurs, “ _Blow me_.”

And, well, Patrick can’t say no to that, can he? He never could, and never will, especially not when Pete says it like that. Without a second thought, he’s kissing down Pete’s chin and neck and chest and focusing on the soft bits of all of those, pulling chub up in his teeth and working it until there are red marks trailing down Pete’s front, concentrated on wherever the most weight is, like some sort of convoluted map. Patrick would be finding that really hot if he wasn’t busy really not caring how fat Pete may or may not be. 

Finally, Patrick reaches Pete’s crotch, but he’s a tease, so he doesn’t go straight for the dick. He skirts around it, dropping down Pete’s left thigh and sucking on the inside, pressing kisses and leaving bites on all that wonderful fucking chub, wherever he can find it, which is everywhere. Pete is writhing and moaning under him and, “Patrick, Patrick, please, babe, _please_ —“

Patrick sits up, just barely, to respond with some form of “shut up”, but unfortunately just as he opens his mouth he gets a full view of the spread of Pete’s thighs, one of which is newly marked up, and the sight of it breaks him, so what really comes out is, “Baby, your thighs are _huge_.”

It takes Patrick two seconds to process the words that have just left his mouth, and in that time Pete has already gone rigid in shock. Patrick does about the same, waiting for Pete to inevitably freak out, or get offended, or maybe genuinely upset, maybe he knows how big he is and he’s just self conscious, and now Patrick has ruined a two year relationship with this weird kink thing he’s got going on, and—

“Anything else you want to say?”

Patrick’s gaze flies up Pete’s body, meeting eyes that aren’t as shocked as he’d been expecting. If anything, Pete looks smug. Yes, that’s definitely it. The bastard is fucking _smug_. He’s sitting up on the bed, staring down at Patrick, and fucking grinning, the fuck?

“What?” Patrick nearly screams. Now he’s the one in shock. Pete looks like he knows what’s going on, which is more than Patrick’s got going for him. 

“Oh, come on,” Pete says, rolling his eyes (rolling his eyes!), “you clearly like this, and I know for a fact my thighs are _not_ the only thing that’s different. So, I said, anything else you want to say?”

Patrick blinks. Shit. There’s a lot of questions, right now, and absolutely no answers, and they should really pause to talk about—

“Your fucking face, babe, it’s gotten so chubby, it’s brilliant.”

Or, or they could do that, sure. 

Pete isn’t even fazed. Actually, his face is reminiscent of the look he gets when he’s actually being sucked off. (Which is what Patrick _should_ be doing right now, but isn’t.) Patrick, again, wants to ask questions. But he’s also extremely horny and he has a whole lot of pent up shit going on right now, so, you know—

“And god, do you realize how you looked with your ass in those pants? They didn’t fucking fit, and you knew that, and it looked _amazing_.”

Patrick punctuates this one with a hand curling around to grab Pete’s ass, and his mouth on Pete’s belly again, teeth scraping against all the skin he can get them on. Pete moans beneath him, starts, “Pa—“

Patrick cuts him off, because now everything he’s bottled up the past twenty-four hours is pouring out of him, and he’s murmuring, “Your stomach is so fucking big, I can’t stop staring at the curve of it, I don’t know how it got like that in only _three months_ , I love it.”

He bites down again and Pete moans, again, and then Patrick moves himself up, tracing a finger down Pete’s soft side as he starts to position himself to finally do what he’s been meaning to do this whole time. Then, right before he does, hovering right above Pete’s dick, which is ridiculously hard (not like Patrick’s any better off), he says what he’s been waiting to say, subconsciously, ever since his subconscious presented it to him. 

“You look so good fat.”

Pete might be about to say something, but he doesn’t get the chance, because at that second Patrick takes him down as far as he can, and Pete lets out a broken moan instead. 

For once, the blowjob isn’t even focused on Pete’s dick, not really. Instead, Patrick focuses on trailing his hands all over Pete’s body, squeezing a thigh, brushing against a bite mark on Pete’s chubby left side, returning a hand to cup his ass. Pete writhes beneath him again as he does, and it’s not Patrick’s mouth, but his hands finally firmly anchoring themselves in the fat of Pete’s thighs, that makes him come in the end. 

Patrick lifts himself off and drops to the side, moving a hand down to finish himself off, but it’s barely even necessary. Seeing Pete like this is basically masturbation times two, or something like that. That could be a nice line, if he refines it. He’ll work on that. 

Patrick pushes himself up the bed and ends up curled into Pete, face pressed into his neck—which he hadn’t even thought about before the nice hickey he’d just left, but oh, that’s softer too—and arms wrapped around his thick waist. A couple minutes pass, in complete silence, before Patrick’s brain awakens from his post-sex stupor and yells, HEY, YOU JUST CALLED YOUR BOYFRIEND FAT, AND HE WAS TOTALLY INTO IT. 

Patrick jolts awake, face immediately going red. Oh man, he’s just said—a lot. A whole lot. And Pete doesn’t seem to hate him right now, but. Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

“Pete, oh my god,” Patrick mumbles, needing to force himself to take his face out of his boyfriend’s neck for a second. “What just happened?”

“I think,” Pete responds immediately, and god, the fucker is smirking again, “I gained some weight while I was away—you know, foreign food is just so good, and all that—and you’re totally into it. And you told me. Quite extensively. During sex. It was nice.”

“Ah.” Patrick pauses again, lets that all sink in. It’s odd that he was so afraid of Pete finding out about this, when it turns out Pete was thinking along the same lines the whole time. That’s...nice, really. But Patrick also might need to cleanse himself of some demons anyway. 

“Babe,” he mutters, “I’m gonna sleep. And if I still hate myself in the morning, we’ll deal with it then.”

“Okay,” Pete replies, still sounding smug as hell. “You do that.”

“Mhm.” Patrick nods. 

Then, he curls himself back into Pete’s side, face returning to Pete’s soft neck, hands finding their way to a chubby waist, and legs intertwining themselves with those damn thighs. And he thinks, hey, if he’s really just going to get to keep chubby Pete like this, this all might not be so bad after all.

**Author's Note:**

> hi im honey all my fics have weird endings


End file.
